


The Angel's Workshop

by Xekstrin



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, mentions of BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 23:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xekstrin/pseuds/Xekstrin
Summary: Sometimes we just want to feel bad. Moira is deeply familiar with the concept, even if Mercy isn’t.





	The Angel's Workshop

 

 

 

She'd seen the angel's workshop in many times and many places. They scattered across her memory, each one cast in a different light. 

A psychologist once recommended that Angela take up some sort of artistic craft, because of the sense of completion a finished project could bring her.

That made a certain amount of sense to Moira, since they both rarely got to see the final product of their work. A set bone, a list of instructions, and occasional follow ups. Then their patients might as well fade into the abyss, unless they were lucky to get stationed together again, or unlucky enough to be a patient again.

It carried over through the years, ranging from stacks of those cute, kitschy "adult" coloring books to puzzles, painting, music, and for a brief period, wood carving. She blamed Lindholm for that one. There'd been loose shavings all over the floor for months afterward.

It was certainly Angela's adopted father that gave her access and insight into smithing and engineering and how to make metal come alive. That’s how they built Genji. Moira always found it fascinating to watch Angela shift from one mode to the other, stitching flesh and melting steel and forming something new from it all.

Now, decades after they had first met, Moira saw the angel's workshop was a desk in the corner of their shared office. Angela had long strips of paper cut up next to her, soft white with pale pink roses. She folded them into little cranes, ten each evening, and put them into a jar.

Tonight she only did five.

Roughly thirty feet away, in the ward across the hall, Hanzo Shimada was in critical condition and there was no way of knowing whether or not he would survive the night.

The two of them were still recovering from the surgery in their own ways, too exhausted to acknowledge the tension that always existed between them outside the operating room.

Moira was a traitor to Overwatch and Angela's ex-wife, and she didn't know which part Angela hated more.

"You want a cup?" Moira asked quietly, nursing her own mug of very sweet, very strong coffee. It would keep her up all night but it was one of the few ways Moira knew how to reward herself without dipping into old, unsavory habits. She was curled protectively around it, slouched on an old tattered loveseat they'd shoved into the space. Steam coiled up in the cold room.

"No," Angela said so quick it must have been an impulse. Because then she said, "Yes," and Moira got up to make another cup, when they heard a knock on the door. It must be Genji; nobody else had knuckles that sounded like a drummer on a tin roof.

He opened the door a fraction, poking his head in. "Hello? Doctors?"

"Genji," Moira greeted him with a low voice, warm but not entirely kind. Angela didn't say anything. "Did you get my message?"

Taking it as invitation, Genji stepped inside and lifted up his communicator. "Yes. I was just wondering if now was a good time to see Hanzo?”

The new lenses over his eyes were an attempt to hide the eerie red glow of exposed circuitry and blood vessels. The blue only did so much, washed out by the light. But the violet was preferable, in her opinion. "He's not in stable condition just yet. But yes, you can. Just don't touch anything."

Even with the respirator on, she could see the way his eyes softened in a smile. "Thank you." Then his attention turned to Angela, who was still seated at her desk with a half-folded strip of paper in front of her. "Both of you. Thank you for saving my brother's life."

"Actually," Moira started.

That's when Angela finally moved, sitting up straight. The blood drained from her face, but she remained stoic, if a little wide-eyed.

"I hardly did anything at all," Moira finished. "Dr. Ziegler makes me feel like a glorified nurse at times."

In her confusion, Angela allowed herself to relax, shooting her a glare.

Picking up on the mood, Genji's brow furrowed. He wasn't stupid; he could sense a game was afoot, but had no desire to play. So he bowed his head in thanks and left, his new feet not making a sound against the bare floors.

"Did you enjoy that?" Angela sounded strained, tension making her shoulders straight. "Playing mind games with me?"

"More than you know." In truth she felt nothing more than a brief flash of wicked glee, but pretending was part of the game.

The only way she felt pleasure was when the stakes were much higher. And even then, that rarely justified most of what she did. Working off of impulse and stubbornness, Moira latched onto whatever might further her goals and rode along as far as it would take her.

Angela spun in her chair, eyes narrowed suspiciously at Moira. "Why didn't you tell him the truth?"

"Why should I have?"

Why would she tell Genji that when his brother was wheeled in, the impeccable Dr. Ziegler choked? That was a precious gift, something Moira had never seen before. What purpose would there be in sharing that?

No doubt Angela expected her to rub it in, to gloat that their guardian angel played favorites. That if you crossed her, she might let you die. That kind of reputation held no appeal to Angela, which is of course why it presented itself to her most often. Moira was envious of how Angela wielded power, with restraint and purpose. Moira wasn't capable of doing that. She was too hungry for it. Too open in flaunting it.

In any case, no one needed to know that Angela took off her gloves and said, "Moira. Please." without tearing her eyes from the man flatlining in front of them.

It had been two years since the recall. Moira's communicator, the one buried at the bottom of her desk, blipped weakly. The agents of Overwatch were needed, desperately, and Moira responded out of curiosity more than anything else. Did they consider her one of them? Did they forgive her for her part in their dissolution?

Lots of difficult questions. No easy answers. Her favorite kind of chaos.

Two years and Angela finally said her name again. Of course she tackled it all on her own, and Hanzo might live or he might not, but Angela Ziegler played little part in that decision.

"I was merely doing my duty." Moira unwound herself, setting her mug on Angela's desk and propped herself right next to it. "Would you have given him to me if you didn't think I could do it?"

A question with no answer. Angela did her best. "No." She didn't sound like she believed it. Then she rested her face in both her palms, elbows propped on top of her desk. "I don't know. It's been so long, I don't know why..."

Moira waited.

"I spent fourteen hours putting Genji's body back together after what Hanzo did to him," Angela said. "It took ten years for him to heal the damage my scalpel couldn't touch. And I couldn't even help with that."

"And?"

"And?!" Mercy's head snapped up. She got to her feet, shouting suddenly, still not at eye level with the taller woman but trying her best. "And I don't know why Genji even wastes his energy trying to forgive him! _He doesn't even deserve to breathe!_ "

A little tremble rolled up Moira's spine at the viciousness in her words. Rattled, Angela started patting herself down with the desperation of an addict until she found the pack of cigarettes, tapped one out, and tried to light it with a shaking hand.

"And you're loving this," she said with a dark mutter. "Aren't you?"

She was. She started laughing, but not for the reasons Angela suspected. " _Please_. I've seen you treat much worse than Hanzo Shimada. There's no reason you wouldn't have done it again,” Moira said. "But you always were more likely to believe things based off of your emotions rather than fact."

"If you weren't there–"

"But I was. Relax."

Angela refused, scowl deepening. "But–”

Moira leaned in, cutting her short. "You just wanted a moment to pretend you were capable of letting him die and you knew I'd give it to you." She held her hands clasped between her spread knees, smiling serenely down at Angela. “Just like I needed you to beat the demons out of my skin from time to time."

When Angela’s eyes landed on her she swore she felt that righteous fire, set ablaze just under her skin. Blue eyes wide with shock, Angela’s hand froze with the cigarette midway to her lips. She seemed gaunt, and starved, and afraid, the way people get when they’re too accustomed to watching things break and die in their hands.  
  
Moira hung there, for the first time nervous that she might have finally pushed Angela too far.

She'd seen the angel's workshop, after all. She knew what Angela was capable of. That she could have killed Hanzo, a million times over, drew the lines over life and death and crossed them every day. Moira had been strapped to that table herself while Angela picked shrapnel from her spine, or beat her until her pale skin was criss-crossed purple and blue and red.

Moira was a " _project person_ " by her own admittance, but one that couldn't ever be completed. 

Then the doctor shook her head with an insincere laugh. Another long drag from her cigarette gave her the opportunity and time to compose herself again. “You always were a brat.”  
  
“I prefer the term _tease_ , myself.”  
  
“Yes,” Angela said. “I’m sure you do.”

The rest of the cigarette went into the ashtray and Angela announced she was going to go check on the patient.

"Still want that coffee?" Moira called out after her.

"Some other time, perhaps. Good night, Dr. O'Deorain."

"Good niiiiight," Moira sang out, grinning as she left.

When she was gone, Moira lingered on top of her desk for a while. The jar of paper cranes was open, and next to it was an old, heavy coin. It was big enough to fit in Moira's palm, faded bronze and white stripes of Overwatch. The call to duty they all received, the one Moira wasn't quite sure she was here to answer yet.

Ten cranes every day for months, exactly. Was Ziegler aiming for a goal, [or just seeking to fill the empty space](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6yGHOpIe5c)?

When she was sure no one was watching, Moira reached inside and took a crane, tucking it into her pocket. 

She finished her coffee and left, feeling lighter than she had in months.


End file.
